


puppy love

by lovelylogans



Series: the sideshire files [16]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Domestic Fluff, First Dates, Fluff, Food mentions, Holding Hands, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Multi, Plans For The Future, Poetry, Shirtless, Single Parents, Texting, it's just cute y'all, wyliwf!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: “unless I'm reading an assignment or doing a paper or taking a test, I'm thinking about you.” —v.c. andrewsor: various “firsts” in logan and roman’s relationship.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Series: the sideshire files [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1464067
Comments: 44
Kudos: 98





	puppy love

**Author's Note:**

> the timeline of this overlaps with winterfest in chapter 10 to past the end of the main storyline. the poem roman and logan text back and forth is _sonnet xvi_ by pablo neruda; [you can read the spanish and english versions here](https://albalearning.com/audiolibros/neruda/soneto016-sp-en.html), though there are other english translations. the poem that roman texts is [“the rival”](https://genius.com/Sylvia-plath-the-rival-annotated) by sylvia plath, as are the poems logan and roman read aloud; “[tulips](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49013/tulips-56d22ab68fdd0)” first and then [“ella mason and her eleven cats.”](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=27376) forgive the spanish; i’m relying primarily on the internet here, so if anyone has any corrections, please leave them in the comments. the “you looked it up” moment is a gilmore girls reference, and also tells you my preference for rory’s love interests. also, They,

here’s something that he never would have guessed about himself:

logan _likes_ being a boyfriend.

he has, of course, had a crush on roman for just about as long as he’s known him, and his original idea of what one _does_ with a crush has evolved as he’s grown older; he’s gone from thinking about valentine’s candies and holding hands on the playground to the expectation of more _adult_ things, like dinner dates and kissing and the like. he has thought quite a bit, over the past eleven or so years of his life, about what would happen if he or roman were to acknowledge their crush—it had become a consistent daydream that logan rarely (sometimes) indulged himself in.

but logan had never dated before; and logan, he knows now, _likes_ dating, with all the small details that his brain hadn’t been able to cook up because he hadn’t _experienced_ it yet.

he likes that he can give roman his coat when it’s cold outside and roman will wear it; he likes that when he gets it back, the scent of roman’s cologne clings to the collar. he likes that he wakes up to _good morning, my love!_ texts and sends _Good night, I love you_ before he goes to sleep, because roman is inclined to early mornings and logan is inclined to late nights. he likes that roman wraps his arm around logan’s shoulders when they watch movies together; he likes that roman puts a hand on his waist when he moves past him to grab something; he likes that roman taps logan’s shoe with his own under the table at the diner or at lucy’s; he likes that roman touches his hip or his thigh, a silent question, to check in on him. 

he _likes_ being roman’s boyfriend. he likes it very much. he likes it more than he’s willing to admit aloud, with the sole exception of solely to roman, and _only_ when they are alone and logan sees fit to indulge in the sappy side that he’s pretty sure roman caused to exist.

that’s not to say he didn’t have to get _used_ to it at first.

* * *

**first time holding hands**

logan’s feels like he’s _buzzing._

with the newly-ignited lights of winterfest glowing around them, and roman wearing _his_ jacket, and the pair of them breaking eye contact to grin off into the distance (well, _logan’s_ smiling—roman _giggles,_ which is quite possibly one of logan’s favorite sounds) their first kiss ( _they!!! kissed!!!)_ was barely five minutes ago, and logan isn’t quite sure where to go from here.

roman, it seems, does.

because roman’s hand reaches and grabs his, like it’s second nature, like they’ve done it a hundred times before. which, logan supposes, might even be a true estimate and not an exaggeration—they _have_ held hands before.

but it wasn’t like this. 

it wasn’t five minutes after their _first kiss,_ on— _is this a date?_ logan thinks to himself, almost woozy with shock and elation, _i should ask if this is a date—_ and their hands—they’re _holding hands,_ with the implication of it being a romantic display of affection, the way logan had _ached_ for it to be all those times before, and—

“so,” roman says, in the tone he uses when he’s _attempting_ to be casual, but logan knows him well enough to see the sparkle in his eyes, and even if he _didn’t_ know roman very well, he has a pair of glasses that is well within prescription that renders him capable of seeing roman’s big, excited smile, his white teeth glinting with the lights. “lucy’s, right? we said we’d get lucy’s?”

logan’s grin widens, and he squeezes roman’s hand.

“lucy’s sounds good,” he says, and his voice might shake a little, but roman squeezes his hand right back, and rubs his thumb over logan’s knuckles, and—

and they’re _holding hands,_ and logan kind of understands why, in movies, people squeal into pillows after receiving so much as a text from their love interest, because that has _nothing_ on this.

* * *

**first time posting on social media**

_image description: two bowls of half-eaten ice cream sit on a table next to a pillow dragon; roman, wearing a red sweater and a leather jacket, has pulled logan close, an arm wrapped around his shoulder; he’s pressing a kiss to logan’s reddened cheek, logan looking bashfully off-camera, but he’s smiling, too._

**_princeroman:_ ** _lucy’s with my boyfriend!! i love you, logan, but there’s no way i’m sharing._

**_logansanders_ ** _liked this._

**_logansanders_ ** _commented_ **_:_ ** _if you don’t think i’m bringing up this caption the next time you steal some of mine, you are sorely mistaken._

**_princeroman_ ** _liked this._

* * *

**first pet names**

logan walks roman home after winterfest.

well, it isn’t much of a _walk—_ the prince studio and family apartment is one of the bordering buildings of the town square—but still. it counts.

they’re some of the last people at the festival; all the families with kids have gone home already, and most of the people on dates have split off to either go home or extend the date by going to lucy’s or a movie or something, so most of the people left are those manning the booths and the last few people trawling the square, hoping to maybe score just _one_ last prize.

so logan walks roman home. they hold hands the whole way there.

they stop outside of the door; roman moves to take his other hand, so they’re facing each other, hand-in-hand, logan’s new dragon prize tucked under his arm, the way it has been most of the night.

“so,” roman says.

“so,” logan echoes. 

they meet eyes, and roman laughs; logan joins, too. he can’t really help it.

“gosh, we—okay,” roman says. “this was… this was really awesome, logan.”

“yeah,” logan says; _awesome_ in the sense of the traditional meaning of the word, _extremely impressive or daunting; inspiring great admiration, apprehension, or fear; filled with awe._

but the informal _extremely good; excellent_ fits well, too. roman’s a fantastic wordsmith.

roman’s a fantastic _everything._

“so, we—” roman says. “we’re _dating._ right?”

“yes,” logan blurts out. “i—yes. _yes.”_

“cool,” roman says. “i just—wanted to be sure. i mean, i know we said the _l_ word, but people keep talking up this communication thing, so. figured we should probably give it a shot.”

logan nods vociferously. roman could ask him just about anything right now and logan’s pretty sure he’d say yes.

“cool,” roman says again. “boyfriends.”

“yes,” logan says breathlessly. “yes, that’s—i want that.”

roman’s eyes crinkle up when he smiles, sometimes. it’s exceptionally lovely.

“me too,” roman says, and squeezes logan’s hands before he says, “um—i should probably get inside before mom thinks i’m breaking curfew.”

“oh! yes,” logan says, and he’s about to go, except, well, _now,_ he can _—_

“can i kiss you good night?” he asks, and roman _beams_ at him.

“get over here, _cariño_ ,” roman says, and logan almost _startles—_ granted, he only knows a little spanish, and most of that either from roman or the telenovelas that roman makes him watch sometimes—but he knows _cariño_ means _darling, sweetie, dear._

_darling, sweetie, dear._ roman called him a term that implies _romantic affection._

(he knows that roman would likely enjoy it if logan reciprocated; but even with as pleased as he is with this development in their relationship, he’s not. well, he’s not very _good_ at the whole _outward expression of affection and emotions_ thing. but—but it would make roman happy. so he should...try?)

logan leans forward, just a little, to have his third kiss with roman, his third kiss _ever,_ and roman tilts up his chin to meet him.

it’s a little kiss—barely more than a peck, really—but logan feels like he’s soaring anyway.

they drop their hands. logan walks backward a few steps, still trying to _think._ _my love_ feels to intimate for what’s their third kiss, _baby_ or _babe_ feels entirely out of character to say, it’s not like logan is about to break out his notecards to double-check the meaning of what he’s about to say so he doesn’t mix up _stan_ when it turns out he meant to say _bae—_

“good night, logan,” roman says.

(he blames his latin studies for the next thing he says.)

“good night,” logan says, wracks his brain for something _suitable_ , and ends up blurting out, “ _meus theasaurus.”_

roman laughs at him even as logan flushes red and tries to explain, but they both hear ms. prince opening the front door, clearly about to investigate the cause of the noise they’re making, and so roman has to shut the door, laughing all the way up to his mother.

logan’s sure his reddened face doesn’t fade before he gets home, and even if it did, it flares right back up when he checks his phone after brushing his teeth and washing his face.

**_Roman Prince:_** _so, i’m_ _your treasure, huh?_ _  
_**_Roman Prince:_** _i guess i used a term in a language you aren’t fluent in, so we’re even_ _  
_**_Roman Prince:_** _i mean, they call the languages descended from latin “romance languages” for a reason, right?_

logan squashes his face in his new dragon pillow-prize and tries his hardest not to screech.

he is not particularly successful in this endeavor.

* * *

**first romantic good night/good morning text**

**_Logan Sanders: “_ ** _I love you and your earthy flesh, because from the planetary meadows I have no other star. You repeat the multiplication of the universe.”_

**_Roman Prince_ ** _: tus anchos ojos son la luz que tengo de las constelaciones derrotadas, tu piel palpita como los caminos que recorre en la lluvia el meteoro._

**_Logan Sanders_ ** _: I felt your hips were made of moon; your mouth and its delights were a sun burning bright like honey in the shade,_

**_Roman Prince_ ** _: tu corazón quemado por largos rayos rojos, y así recorro el fuego de tu forma besándote, pequeña y planetaria, paloma y geografía._

**_Logan Sanders_ ** _: Good night, Roman. I had a lovely time tonight._

**_Roman Prince:_ ** _good night, my love._ _  
_ **_Roman Prince:_ ** _also, i know you chose neruda just for me. you sap._

**_Roman Prince:_ ** _good morning, mi luna a mi sol. for when you wake up:_ _  
_ **_Roman Prince_ ** _: if the moon smiled, she would resemble you. you leave the same impression of something beautiful, but annihilating._ _  
  
_

**_Logan Sanders:_ ** _Good morning, Roman. I know I’m paraphrasing, but:_ _  
_ **_Logan Sanders:_ ** _“No day is safe from news of you, Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.”_ _  
_ **_Logan Sanders:_ ** _I know you chose Plath just for me. Any remarks you made on the choice of poet of choice based upon the other’s preference should now be rescinded._ _  
_ **_Logan Prince:_ ** _I believe the rhetoric of “sap” was used previously; however, I believe “saccharine” would be a better fit. It bears further investigation, therefore I am humbly submitting this offer and awaiting your response._

**_Roman Prince:_ ** _fucking nerd_ **_  
_ ** **_Roman Prince:_ ** _i absolutely adore you._

* * *

**first parental introduction**

ms. prince has never been a particularly _genial_ person.

they’d gotten along, in the way that logan supposes most teenagers get along with their friends’ parents; she’d ask after his grades, and his dad, and what he was reading lately, and he would answer, and he would ask after the studio, and she would respond, and then, with the socially required small-talk fulfilled, they’d sit in silence.

most times, they’d skip the small talk; they’ve always had the _not particularly people-people_ thing in common.

there is a distinctly different, to use roman’s word, _vibe,_ now that logan has begun dating her only son.

they’re existing in silence, as they usually do; except, this time, logan feels _distinctly_ uncomfortable, even as ms. prince is preoccupied with making them both tea.

roman’s off at a _nutcracker_ practice, too, so it’s not like logan can look forward to roman coming to save him from this particular interaction. also, it’s not like the last interaction that the pair of them had with his dad yesterday was particularly _enjoyable,_ and logan would, in fact, like to scrub it from his brain.

logan’s sitting at the prince’s kitchen table. their apartment is relatively modest; isadora’s room on one side of the apartment, roman’s on the other, the living room and kitchen split between them. their _kitchen table_ is a four-seater table set between the breakfast bar and the couch sitting in front of the tv. the decorations are unlike his father’s cluttered, kitschy decor; it’s mostly traditional, scandinavian, with a few keepsakes left out for view. a picture of ms. prince and roman’s father; some pictures of her side of the family, back in mexico; some pictures of roman, through various stages of life, including, he notices, one of him and roman, aged seven, with his dad and virgil at winterfest; some awards isadora had won and keepsakes she’d accrued during her accomplished ballet career, the ones that weren’t adorning the hallways and her office downstairs in the studio; the latest dance marathon trophy, narrowly won by ms. prince, was on proud display, much to roman’s consternation, logan’s sure; he’s still stung about how he lost last year.

logan supposes all of this is a distraction for him from their impending conversation, and from what’s going on between his dad and virgil, at the very least.

she comes forward and sets the cup in front of him, before sitting at the other side of the kitchen table. 

logan thanks her for the tea, takes a cursory sip, and sets it back on the table, before he sets down the teacup.

“i wanted to discuss something with you,” he says.

she arches a brow; it seems to say, _i figured._

“right,” he says, and wipes his sweaty palms on his chilton uniform pants. “um. clearly, you are… aware that my and roman’s relationship has changed.”

“yes,” she says, her tone typically neutral. “roman told me. your father… _discussed…_ that he would be talking to you two.”

logan just barely resists the urge to cringe out of his body. of _course_ she knows about The Talk patton gave them both; _that_ must have been what he was asking her about when he’d stayed behind at the _nutcracker_ showing.

“yes,” he says. “well. i wanted to… inform you.”

“i have been informed,” she tells him. logan takes a deep breath.

“i love your son,” he tells her; it rings true, as true as any truth he’s ever said. “i would like to be with him for a very long time. it would be important to him that you… approve.”

he waits a beat, before he adds, “and, regardless, old-fashioned as it might be, it still seems like the polite thing to do to discuss _intentions_ and the like with you.”

her lip twitches, so quickly that logan thinks he might have imagined it.

“you didn’t tell roman we were going to have this talk, did you?”

“no,” logan admits. 

she hums, and sets down her teacup. 

“logan, please,” she says, and logan wasn’t wrong, she sounds almost _amused,_ “i have known that you and roman would likely date as soon as he came home from kindergarten talking about you. patton and i have been considering this for _years._ there is no need to state your seriousness or your intentions; i would argue that i have likely known them for far longer than you have.”

logan tries to work over some thoughts to articulate aloud for a few moments, but all he can really manage is, “oh.”

“and,” she says, picking up her teacup. “i have already told roman i approve. i have approved of you since you were five. and, i am assuming, when you come to me a few years down the line to ask another traditional question posed to parents prior to a relationship shift, i will likely have to tell you the same thing.”

logan’s face heats; it doesn’t take sherlock holmes to deduce that she’s talking about a _proposal._

“a few _years,_ i must reiterate, there will be no rushing this relationship. you will wait until you are both ready, and both adults,” she says, piercing him with a stern glower, and logan nods rapidly. “all right, then. i approve. i approve of you far more than anyone else.”

“oh,” logan repeats, and then his voice cracks: “great.”

she smirks; he can’t really begrudge her that.

“so,” she says, and takes her own sip of tea. “have you read any good books, lately?”

logan blows out the subtlest breath of relief he can manage, and with that, they shift toward practiced topics of conversation; that’s really the place they’re both most comfortable with each other.

* * *

**first parental teasing**

roman nearly twists an ankle in his rush to get to doose’s.

he’s cursing himself for this even as he dashes through the door—sure, a twisted ankle wouldn’t be super _serious,_ but he’s still in a fairly large featured role in ballet, so he doesn’t want to _risk_ an _injury,_ no matter how small _—_ and scampers past the register before taylor can say anything about it.

he’s in the aisle for snacks and sweets; roman probably should have expected this.

“roman!” patton exclaims, spotting him, and then sparing a slightly rueful glance toward his shopping cart; if roman were virgil, perhaps he’d care a bit more about the fact that he’s caught patton buying poptarts in bulk red-handed, but he isn’t virgil, so he doesn’t really mention it. he probably won’t mention it to virgil either, since it’s not like virgil’s been particularly chatty this week.

“hey,” roman says. “um—can i walk with you?”

patton only allows his puzzlement to show through a brief furrowing of his eyebrows.

“sure,” he agrees, and so roman walks with patton and keeps his mouth wisely closed about the foods in patton’s cart that virgil would kick a fit about, and that roman would have to break his daily meal plan over a dozen times over to consume all of it. 

(not to say that roman _doesn’t_ break his meal plan, on occasion; his mother and virgil both champion healthy eating, that much is true, but the pair of them also allow a fair amount of lenience if roman _really_ wants to have something sweet. he jokes that it’s because he’s so handsome and charming it’s difficult to deny him what he wants, but really, he’s pretty sure that over the years, when he wasn’t in the room, his mom and virgil have discussed the unhealthy attitudes toward food that tends to overtake people in the dancing industry and strived their very best to make sure he doesn’t fall into it. he’s never really brought himself to ask.)

“um, i was wondering if i could ask you a favor?”

“sure,” patton says, and points briefly at the display case of refrigerated drinks at the end of the aisle. “d’you want a gatorade? they’ve got the good red type in this week, not the cloudy new formula one.”

roman accepts this—patton’s heard his and logan’s impassioned debates of _all_ of their food preferences, over the years, it doesn’t really surprise him that patton remembers his favorite flavor of gatorade, but it does give him that unexpected little ping of _oh, people care about me!_ in his chest that happens whenever someone remembers something little like that. it’s the twisty-cap bottle, too, and gatorade always tastes better in the twisty-cap bottles. patton gets one of those glass bottles from starbucks for himself. 

“does this have something to do with the dance coming up?” patton asks, and roman grins.

“that obvious?”

“just a little,” patton says, amused.

“okay,” roman says, getting himself back on track. “um, i got logan a boutonniere, and i realized that i don’t really—i already got him flowers, they’re at home and i’m gonna bring them for him, but—but i have a class to help my mom with on friday, and then i have to get ready, so i have less time than i thought, so i was wondering if you’d be able to pick up the boutonniere for me?”

patton grins at the aisle ahead of them, like, the _i know something you don’t know_ kind of smile, that bemuses roman in the moment; on friday, he’ll put together that it’s because logan has asked patton the exact same thing.

“of course i’ll pick up the boutonniere for you,” patton declares, and roman lets out a sigh of relief. it’s not like he’d expected patton to say _no,_ or anything, but it’s just—

“okay,” roman says. “thank you so much, patton, that helps a lot. i didn’t wanna be late coming over or anything.”

“no problem, kiddo,” patton says, and, with a strangely pensive look, pauses before he picks up a bag of assorted chocolate candies, placing it in his basket. but then he shakes the look so effectively that roman thinks he might have imagined it, and he continues, “so, you and me, we haven’t really had a chance to _talk_ , lately.”

roman grins; look, he loves logan, clearly, and virgil too, not that he’d ever really tell him that outright, but neither of them really _got_ talking about things the way he and patton did. they’ve always had the _extroverts in a group of introverts_ thing in common. honestly, patton’s like another friend to him; he figures most teenagers don’t feel that way about their best friend’s father. or, well. _boyfriend’s_ father, now.

“i guess not,” he says, grinning back, “but you know all of the big things going on in my life right now.”

patton laughs; his laugh always sounds nice, and it sounds even nicer now, knowing from logan’s texts how low he’s been lately, because of the whole _we’re taking a break_ thing he and virgil have right now. “i guess i do.”

“oh! um,” he says, because he realizes he’s _kind of_ neglected a gentlemanly part of dating in high school, but really, how is one supposed to go about “meeting and getting parental approval” when he’s known the parent in question since he was _five,_ “i mean, you—it’s—i know you mentioned on monday that you were happy for us, but we’re, um. we’re cool, right? should i have done the whole _for permission to court thy son, i offer these boons_ thing?”

patton snorts, and says, “i’m sorry, i thought we might have swapped universes for a moment, in which i was my mother—”

roman offers his most theatrical shudder and bows deeply at the waist. “forgive me, kind sir, i never meant to imply such an insult.”

patton laughs outright, then, even if he sounds a little guilty about laughing at a joke targeted at his mother, before he nudges lightly at roman with his elbow. “we’re a _modern_ household, here in sideshire. no need for any of that; and even if there was, like i said: i’ve been rooting for you both for a _decade._ we’re cool! super cool. ice cold, even.”

“okay,” roman says. “good! good.”

there’s a pause, before patton says, “ _soooooooooo….”_

“so?” roman repeats.

patton nudges him with his elbow again, with a teasing grin on his face, this time. 

“so you _reeaaaaaally_ like him, huh?” patton says, going all wide-eyed and jokingly innocent.

“aw, jeez,” roman grumbles, trying his hardest to fight off any silly grinning. 

“like,” patton says, turning his big doe eyes to roman. “you _like-like_ him!”

“ _patton,”_ he groans.

“ _roman_ and _logan,_ sittin’ in a tree—”

roman hides his face in his hands, unable to stand it anymore, and patton laughs, saying “i’ll stop, i’ll stop!” even as roman emerges, laughing a little sheepishly, too, because, well—

they _are_ kissing now, him and logan. it’s really quite aggressively nice. he can bear patton poking fun at him about it; honestly, it’s kind of _nice,_ because, well.

because patton and virgil are the closest thing he’s got to father figures, and according to everything he’s heard about remus duke, he probably would have poked a fair amount of fun about roman getting together with logan, and again, virgil hasn’t been _too_ chatty, and his mom’s version of “poking fun” is so subtle that people tend not to spot it, and even with as much practice roman has, it can take him a hot minute to get it.

plus, less depressingly, it just reminds him that he’s got logan as a boyfriend, now, and that gives him this happy glowing feeling in his chest. so he doesn’t mind it all that much. he doesn’t mind it at all, really.

patton pauses as they enter another aisle.

“we’re very proud of you, you know,” patton says suddenly, and roman turns to him, half-startled. 

“i—”

“you know,” patton says. “with the _nutcracker_ —gosh, roman, when we saw you on saturday it was so _beautiful,_ i know i said it already but you should hear it again—and knowing how hard you’ve worked to get this far, and how much further you’re bound to go, and you and logan finally putting everything together and working it all out, like adults, because you’re both almost adults, i just—we’re all very proud of you. me, your mom,” a brief pause, “virgil.”

roman stares at him.

because that’s the thing about patton, too; they’ve always had the _outward expression of emotion_ thing in common, too. he loves his mom, and virgil, and logan, but bless the three of ‘em, they’re not exactly _effusive._ he knows his mom and virgil and logan are _proud_ of him, it’s just—

well. it’s just different to hear it out loud, is all.

“thanks, patton,” he says, in a very quiet voice.

patton reaches over and ruffles his hair, the same way that virgil does, making roman’s heart clench for them; the way they always seem to mimic each other in little ways like that, without either of them noticing.

“you’re welcome, kiddo.”

* * *

**first date**

roman’s sure his hair’s a disaster; he’s been shedding the baby’s breath he wreathed throughout his hair, and he knows firsthand how sweaty his hair gets when he dances, so he’s pretty sure he looks like some kind of woodland flower faerie prince that got his head dunked underwater and then dragged to the human world, rumpled clothes and all.

logan, in contrast, is barely ruffled; his tie is loosened, but that was a choice, and his hair is a smidge messier than usual, mostly because roman had messed it up when they’d ducked into a secluded section of hallway to kiss right before their last dance.

logan doesn’t seem to mind; he’s kind of staring, really. which is okay, since roman’s staring, too.

they are, of course, partaking in ice cream at lucy’s, as roman had promised; they’re savoring the last halves of their bowls, trading kisses over ice cream and talking about anything and everything; the song that roman had heard for the first time and liked; logan’s discussion with the journalism supervisor at chilton; logan had to talk roman out of going out to buy a celebratory sparkler or something, upon hearing all the details of logan’s takedown of dee.

but now, they’re sitting together, and eating.

and staring.

roman likes that he can be less subtle about staring, now. if logan sees him, roman doesn’t have to suddenly look away.

“must i remind you of your caption,” logan says, not looking away from roman’s face, even as roman’s attempting to subtly take a spoonful of logan’s salted caramel ice cream without his knowledge; roman pouts, but withdraws his spoon.

logan lasts about six seconds before he sighs and tips his bowl toward roman; roman crows with success as he scoops himself a heaping spoonful of logan’s ice cream. other than roman taking cherries from logan, sharing lucy’s is a rare occurrence that is meant to be savored.

he pauses as logan arches an eyebrow at him, before he sighs and tips his bowl at logan in kind, and logan smirks as he takes his _own_ chunk out of roman’s scoop.

roman closes his lips over his spoon and savors the taste: the marriage of caramel, chocolate, cherries. his eyelashes flutter shut and he makes a soft noise of absolute content. lucy is a genius, a goddess upon this earth, an angel from heaven who has descended from the clouds solely to bless humankind with the best ice cream in all of creation.

“thanks, baby,” roman says, leaning over to press a kiss to logan’s cheek; he shivers, roman imagines, because his lips are fairly chilled from the ice cream. 

logan mutters something along the lines of _you’re welcome,_ and roman jabs a spoon at logan.

“okay, first date rating out of ten, go,” he says.

“ten,” logan says immediately, and roman pumps a fist in the air in success. 

“see!” he announces. “it was worth the wait for the dance, right?!”

logan smiles at him, ever so slightly, and admits, “i suppose it was.”

“all dressed up in fancy suits and showing off at your fancy school,” roman says. “it _was_ fun, wasn’t it?”

logan rolls his eyes, and says, “yes, yes, you _told_ me so.”

roman would brag more, if he wasn’t interrupted by the soft scuffing of an orthopedic dress shoe.

lucy thompson had been a prominent figure in sideshire before the pair of them were born, and roman would quite like to keep it that way for as long as possible. for as long as roman can remember, she’s worn almost always the same thing, the only thing denoting the difference between her presence in the ice cream parlor or just out and about town was the pristine white apron always tied around her waist; summer or winter, day or night, lucy always wore long floral skirts or dresses, paired with sweaters and tights in the winter, and short-sleeved in the summers. her white hair had long since been cropped short, but it still formed curls that she tamed to the best of her ability. she was a pudgy, all-around friendly old black woman, and for a solid year of his life it was roman’s dearest ambition to grow up to be her.

honestly, he wouldn’t _mind_ growing up to be her, still; just after a career in the arts, first.

“how are my boys doing?” she asks, her voice like vanilla ice cream and peach cobbler on a warm summer’s night.

“ _excellent,_ lucy,” roman enthuses, “truly, your batches get better and better each time—tell me, did they send the recipe down _with_ you from heaven, or did you have to write back to home base to get the angels to send it here for you?”

she chuckles, waving the towel in her hand like she’s about to swat him with it. “don’t you go tryin’ to make an old woman blush.”

“i only speak the truth!” he protests.

“if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you were spiting your date by flirtin’ in front of him,” she says, and roman turns to grin at logan before he returns his attention to lucy.

“logan knows all about the burning, passionate love i have for you, lucy.”

logan rolls his eyes, and rather than respond, he eats another spoonful of ice cream.

“he’s fully willing to be my mistress once we get married, my darling lu,” roman continues, and lucy’s crackling laugh echoes throughout the parlor. this time, she really _does_ swat him with the towel.

“keep talkin’ and you won’t get the special treat i came to drop off for the pair of you,” she scolds, and roman brightens while logan looks at her, eyes narrowed.

“ _what_ special treat?” logan says. “one we’re going to _pay for.”_

“uh-huh,” lucy says, clearly brushing aside things like _profit_ and _money needed to keep her parlor running,_ and sets it down on the table; a mini cookie cake, iced with white snowflakes. “you boys eat up, and have a nice night, now. polly’s closin’ up, tonight.”

she turns, and calls out, “polly, don’t you accept a cent for this gift from either of these boys!”

“yes, ma’am,” polly says, and returns her attention to cleaning the milkshake machine.

“but—” logan says, clearly about to argue, and roman pats his arm.

“you _know_ she’s not gonna take any money, lo,” roman says, “she hasn’t for as long as we’ve been alive.”

logan grumbles something along the lines of _won’t stop me from tipping polly twice,_ and lucy cackles again, before she reaches over and takes her hat, putting it on.

“well, i’m off,” she decides. “congratulations, boys. very happy you’re together,” and then she fixes a beady glare on roman. “don’t you go bringin’ _him_ in here shoppin’ round for a pity sundae to break up over like the last one, now.”

“well,” roman says very reasonably, “ _jess_ didn’t understand being my mistress when i’m married to you like logan does.”

lucy’s “behave!” doesn’t ring quite so sincere when she’s chuckling all the way through it, and both boys wish her a good night when she leaves.

roman says, “you _know_ lucy’s going to give extra food whenever she wants.”

“i know,” logan says, “but a _cookie cake._ she usually sells these for—” he swivels to examine the menu, “ten dollars!”

“it’s a _gift_ ,” roman points out.

“ _still,”_ logan grumbles.

“she’s _happy_ for us,” roman says. “‘sides, it’s probably leftover and she doesn’t want to sell a stale one tomorrow, so she got rid of it through us. reducing food waste and all that.”

logan gives him a look, like, an _i know what you’re trying to do_ look, but he doesn’t say anything.

“c’mon, pass me that knife,” roman says. “i’m gonna cut the cake in half so we can pack it up and get out of polly’s hair once we finish our ice cream.”

and they end up leaving pretty quickly; true to his word, logan drops _another_ tip into the jar, polly shaking her head ever so slightly but accepting it, and logan and roman step back out into the cold.

logan offers roman his arm; roman takes it gladly.

logan checks his watch. “we have about fifteen minutes before your curfew.”

roman feels like he doesn’t even _need_ to suggest it, but he says it aloud anyway: “gazebo?”

and so they go.

they’d started sneaking out to the gazebo during the four-ish years that patton and logan had lived in an apartment closer to the diner and the prince studio; it had been perfectly equidistant between the pair of them, then, and now, they’re just so used to it that the idea of even suggesting another covert meeting place is absolutely absurd.

roman supposes they quite literally kissed that idea goodbye during winterfest, but, well. as he climbs the stairs to the gazebo, and looks out at the town square—their picturesque, lovely town square, dreamily lit up by lights strung all around, surrounded by all the businesses owned by all the familiar people they’d both known all their lives, all these countless memories buried in every step he could take to get here, everywhere he can look… it doesn’t even occur to roman to _mind._

roman spins a little so that he can face logan properly, and immediately fights the urge to flush when he sees the look in logan’s eyes; when they’re alone, he’s noticing now that they’re _together,_ it’s like roman’s presence is enough to melt away any of the professionalism or stoicism that logan tends to cling to. now, anyone who’d see logan like this would know that he held all this fondness, and kindness, and warmth, and that he only offered this tiny show of vulnerability to _roman._

it’s enough to give a boy a bit of a head trip, if roman’s perfectly honest. 

“this was perfect tonight, logan,” roman says, voice soft. “it really was.”

logan smiles. “i agree.”

“good,” roman says decisively, and rocks up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to logan’s lips, sweet and swift, before he turns to look out at the rest of the town, so full of leftover adrenaline from the dance and happiness from _this_ with logan that it’s making him a bit silly. he wants to shout up to the apartment windows that he’s _here,_ with _logan,_ on a _date;_ they were _kissing_ and everything!! roman was lucky enough to land him!!

or, at least, he _means_ to turn and look at the rest of the town; logan’s hand on his shoulder stops him, and he leans in to progress that kiss from _sweet and swift_ to _sweet and savored,_ butterflies bursting in roman’s stomach all the while. 

roman giggles when they pull away, and pulls one of the last sprigs of baby’s breath from his hair to tuck into logan’s buttonhole. logan blushes such a bright red whenever roman manages to fluster him, and, well, how can roman _not_ kiss him when he’s all flustered like that???

so roman’s three minutes late getting in from his curfew; his mother doesn’t seem to mind it when she sees him waltz up the stairs, humming, with half a mini cookie cake from lucy’s as a form of bribery.

* * *

**first daydream**

finals at chilton are distinctly different from finals at sideshire high.

at sideshire high, at some point throughout the last week, teachers would sit them down for a test; they’d take it, and then, if there was still time throughout the week, they’d watch movies or play games in class, or, occasionally, have a study hall for any of their remaining finals.

finals at chilton were an _event._

each class had its dedicated timeslot on a specific day of the week, either at nine, eleven, or one, for their ninety-minute final; at the thirty minute mark, sixty minute mark, and then for each subsequent ten minutes after until the time limit expired, the students who finished early would be allowed to walk silently down to the large gathering space outside the gym that was traditionally the senior commons, either to get out of the building and get picked up by parents, or drive home themselves, or to sit in the commons and wait until the next timeslot for their final.

they were allowed to break uniform, too. logan hadn’t quite grown accustomed to calling out-of-uniform days _civvy days,_ as was the slang at chilton, due to his attendance of public school for approximately ten consecutive years prior, where every day was an out-of-uniform day. only some people attempted to dress to impress—logan included, he supposes, as he’s still wearing a tie—but the majority of students have come in sweatshirts and sweatpants, to be as comfortable as possible.

it’s ten-thirty on a monday, and logan should be examining various math formulas to review for his next final.

instead, he finds himself… _preoccupied._

_roman looks very handsome, in white and purple and silver trim that glitters under the spotlights, crown on his head, hair spritzed liberally with white, and it’s like he’s floating gracefully along as he escorts the sugar plum fairy onstage—_

_—roman’s makeup, sharp and clear and defined, even as there were beads of sweat at roman’s brow, his hairline. the eyeshadow glimmered in the light refracting from their white surroundings, his lipstick was a shade of light lilac, his cheeks sculpted and highlighted, his eyes wide, bright, excited. his hair, almost like he was dusted with powdered sugar, was swept into a neat hairstyle, the crown glittering—_

_—roman with a halo of baby's breath in his hair, complementing his glowing skin, his red suit—_

_—roman reaches up to wrap his arms around logan's neck._

_"fun?" he says, and logan smiles down at him, reaching down to fix one of the sprigs of baby's breath in his hair that's gone a little askew in the midst of all the dancing._

_"with you," he says simply, and roman smiles wider—_

_—roman, tilting his head to rest his cheek against logan’s, and logan’s hyper-aware of the scent of him—the distant scent of floral body wash, deodorant, the more present scent of cologne, that_ **_cologne_ ** _—_

_—roman’s lips on his, before they part, and giggles, and ducks his head, hugging logan closer. logan wraps his arms around roman, too, and buries his nose into roman’s hair._

_“i love you too,” roman whispers, and when he draws back to look at logan’s face, logan’s cheeks hurt._

_roman’s smile is blinding—_

logan has to physically shake himself, and looks up to make sure no one’s noticed his attention drifting; everyone else is preoccupied, either by talking with friends or by studying for their own finals.

“ _focus,”_ he scolds himself aloud, and tries his very best to turn his attention away from thoughts of roman—their second date, the night of logan’s last final, and he can focus plenty on roman _then._

his brain has a bit of trouble listening to that logic.

even when he’s not there, roman, logan expects he’d be thrilled to learn, is absolutely captivating.

* * *

**first parental check-in**

the black-white-read bookstore is quite possibly one of logan and roman’s favorite businesses in town.

it’s housed in what was once an old duplex that’s been renovated to be half bookstore, half cinema. the red couch and wooden chairs and benches double as a reading room in the day; the bookstore offers a shelf of famous books that have been turned into movies for purchase at night. the whole building smells half of books, half of popcorn.

it comes as a surprise to no one, then, that the black-white-read (or _b.w.r.,_ as roman tends to acronymize) is the locale for their second date.

the black-white-read had trotted out an obscure film from their collection of reels, _to please a lady_ ; logan had listened to the subtle _click-click-click_ from the projector, just barely audible under the rustling of popcorn, and clark gable avoiding a female journalist (he suspects roman had looked ahead at the movie schedule and timed it so that logan would have a journalistic subplot to enjoy, and his heart performs a familiar squeeze it only ever seems to do for roman.)

logan hadn’t been able to focus particularly well over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

or, at least, it _seemed_ that his heart rate was particularly noisy. he hopes roman didn’t hear it. he was certainly close enough that he might have been able to.

roman had steered them right for the red couch, which was their typical spot whenever they’d watched movies, before.

but before, they’d sat with a couple inches of space between them, sometimes framing the popcorn bucket between the pair of them, only pressing together during scary movies to seek some kind of comfort. before, there had been space. before, there might have been snuck glances to see roman’s face, lit by the screen, to see how he’d react to major plot moments, how he’d react to the leading man getting the girl.

but the date’s _now,_ when they’re _dating._

now, there’s _touching._

now, roman had an arm over his shoulder. it almost alarmed logan, how excited that one tiny gesture had made him—roman’s arm over his shoulder, sitting close, a gesture typically reserved for couples, especially in movie theaters. had logan not seen roman elaborately categorize all the various sneak methods of wrapping an arm over one’s shoulder that had been displayed in movies? and now, it was _him_ that roman wanted to have his arm around. he probably should have tuned into what it probably _meant_ for him, that he felt so happy at the simplicity of that gesture, but as the movie progressed, as their postures shifted, it became _distinctly_ clear.

now, roman had been pressed right beside him. the warmth of his body was palpable, even through the layers of both of their clothes, and logan couldn’t help but curl in closer to it, to _him_ —the b.w.r. was _always_ cold, no matter the time of year, but especially so in the winter—and he attempts to focus on the movie, he really did, but roman’s so _warm_ and it’s _distracting._

now, roman had put a hand on logan’s knee, creeping up his thigh just a little, to gently rub his thumb back and forth. if even being _side by side_ was distracting, then _this_ certainly was. logan tracks the motion, how clearly he can feel it even through the material of his jeans—roman moves his thumb in a continuous, almost absent-minded motion, to brush occasionally at the bottom of his patella. it starts to bloom on logan, and the statement _i like it when my boyfriend touches me_ absolutely _should_ be an obvious statement, except for the part where logan was _notoriously_ irregular on whether or not he _liked_ to be touched, varying wildly depending on the day, his mood, the type of touch, and the person touching him, but—

now, roman leaned in close, so close that logan could feel his lips against his ear, to whisper something about time-specific misogyny, and logan could not spend any time focusing on the latest development in his preferences toward touching when he can _feel roman’s lips against his ear,_ and when he had previously heard of people kissing ears, either in books or movies, he just thought it odd, but now with roman’s mouth _right there_ he can most certainly see the appeal—

now, when their fingers brushed as they both reached for popcorn, roman would squeeze his hand before moving it away. and if it were anyone else, logan would perhaps _care_ if his fingers had butter and salt on it, but since it’s _roman,_ it seemingly doesn’t _matter anymore,_ his heart just squeezes at his chest in kind.

now, roman had breathed “ _can i kiss you?”_ into his ear during the ending scene, while everyone was transfixed by the final big race, before the credits came on and the lights would ignite and people would _see,_ and logan had been grateful for the low light when they’d parted, because he was sure that he’d looked _exceedingly_ silly; he spared a moment to curse his inexperienced self, because previously, he’d thought that perhaps _roman_ had been a clumsy kisser, but now it’s _decidedly_ clear that it’s _logan._

he didn’t think about that particularly much at the time, though. he’d been very distracted by roman’s sigh when their lips part, as barbara stanwyck’s character tells clark’s that she’s proud of him, his breath smelling sweetly of soda.

logan has walked roman home, once again (or, at least, to the doorway of the diner; roman had seen his mother in the window and decided to join her) and he had kissed roman goodnight, cursory and quick, conscious of people watching through the window. 

so now, logan wanders home alone, a smile lingering on his face that he doesn’t particularly _mind,_ since no one is present to witness it.

he attempts to get his facial expressions in order as he unlocks the door and walks into the house; he glances into the living room, only to hear his father call “in here!” from the kitchen, and so logan obligingly turns.

he knows he’s failed when his father grins at him, big and bright.

“how was the _date?”_ he says, tone only a little teasing, and logan feels his face heat.

“it was—nice,” he says stiffly, before he loses the fight against his own facial muscles and the smile breaks through again. “it was very nice.”

patton claps his hands a few times before he clasps them in front of his chest with a happy squeal, before he energetically gestures logan over to the table.

“i wanna hear all about it!” he says brightly. “unless you’ve got some school prep to do over break, and you’re too busy for ice cream with your old man…?”

logan wavers; he _had_ wanted to start reading a book that he’s supposed start in his english class next semester, but…

“what flavor?”

patton’s grin widens. “i splurged for ben and jerry’s. you know, the coffee-fudgy one?”

logan heads straight for the freezer, ignoring his dad’s knowing laugh. it’s fair, though, they’re both coffee ice cream—coffee _everything—fiends._ the pints will probably be gone by the end of the weekend, if not the end of the night.

logan scoops himself a bowl while answering the questions his dad asks—they went to the black-white-read; they were showing an old clark gable movie; logan supposes the movie was good enough, though he has some personal qualms with how journalism was portrayed and the relationship between the main characters; no book for that movie, but logan was thinking about buying a copy of _the bridge over the river kwai_ , which would be the next week’s showing—before he settles at the kitchen table, across from his dad.

“so,” his dad says, propping his head on his hand. “did he treat you like a gentleman?”

logan thinks about it; he thinks that an extended kiss that took place near the end of the movie doesn’t really count as _ungentlemanly behavior,_ especially when roman had asked for his consent first.

“yes,” logan says decisively, digging his spoon into his ice cream.

“good, good,” his dad says, then, “did _you_ treat _him_ like a gentleman?”

logan thinks about that too; he thinks that a quick kiss in front of his mother _also_ doesn’t count as ungentlemanly behavior.

“yes.”

“good,” patton says, satisfied, and reaches over to pat logan’s arm. “i have to ask, it’s a dad thing.”

“i know,” logan says, and he does; his father has never mentioned particularly many details of his dating history, but logan can gather that his father _has_ experienced ungentlemanly behavior before, and doesn’t want logan to be subjected to any of it.

“okay,” his dad says, and claps his hands. “now, tell me all about the date, tell me _everything!”_

logan doesn’t tell him _everything;_ he doesn’t think his dad would exactly _want_ to hear the play-by-play of roman’s kissing that _will_ be, as roman had once said, “living in his head rent-free” for the foreseeable future, along with the latest development considering his preferences toward _touching,_ and how it will be co-signing that lease, but he does tell him the rest between spoonfuls of coffee-fudge ice cream.

he picks up after roman had picked him up, telling his dad about their walk into town; they’d held hands, fingers laced together, and talked about various other black and white movies they’d seen, as logan had poked fun at roman’s crushes on clark gable and marlon brando; logan’s more inclined toward laurence olivier and james cagney, himself.

(they both agree on the objective attractiveness of gary cooper.)

he tells his dad about roman opening the door for the pair of them and buying their tickets, their popcorn and drinks and the junior mints they’d split. he tells his dad about the red couch that roman had claimed for them (“that’s the best couch,” patton says knowledgeably, nodding approvingly) and sitting together, watching the old reel that must have originally been meant for a drive-in, dancing popcorn and candies that had reminded roman of the drive-in scene in _grease_ and had led to an extended discussion of the musical—primarily, _roman_ discussing, logan nodding or dissenting where he saw fit.

he tells his dad about roman putting an arm over his shoulder, but skirts around any of the other physical displays of affection—really, _he_ needs to at least somewhat dissect what it _is_ about it before he brings it up to _his dad—_ and about the movie, and walking roman to the diner.

logan notices, then, that his dad has his hands clasped under his chin; if one was to judge solely based off of their postures, they would think that _patton_ was the lovestruck schoolboy, not logan.

“and that’s it, i suppose, then i just walked home,” logan finishes, after a few moments, and his dad sighs happily, practically close to swooning.

“oh, don’t mind a sentimental old man, kiddo—”

“—you’re thirty-two—”

“—i’m just—oh, i’m so _happy_ that _you’re_ happy, s’all. i mean. you and roman, together at last!”

logan looks down at his ice-cream, once again finding himself having to tamp down a smile that’s sprung up on his face.

“you seem like you’re happy,” patton says, then, a little anxiously, “ _are_ you happy?”

_are you happy?_ it’s a question patton’s asked him a number of times throughout his childhood and subsequent teenagerhood; _are you happy,_ with the food, or with his school, or with his articles, or with life, in general. logan can assume it’s not a question that people asked of patton very often; he cannot imagine either of his grandparents making regular checks into his father’s emotional well-being. logan’s life would be _profoundly_ different, if they did.

but, regardless. it’s something patton has always kept at the forefront of his parenting—logan’s happiness, his health, his general contentment with life.

_are you happy?_ logan turns the question over in his head, the way he always does whenever patton asks. and his answer has, with very few exceptions, been the same:

“i am.”

patton squeals once again, clapping his hands.

“what about you?” logan asks, and his dad looks a little startled. 

“you and virgil, i mean,” he elaborates. “i mean. you two are together now _too,_ and that’s been going on longer—”

“about the same, actually,” patton corrects gently. “well—for virgil, at least. my side, you’re right, that’s longer than you and ro.”

logan feels a bit weird. even after all these years of _wanting_ virgil and his father to enter a romantic courtship, it’s strange that, after so long, it’s finally _happening._ and also, mistakenly calculating the number, though now with his father’s correction it’s obvious—he’s certain that if some twenty-two year old came sniffing around him or roman right now, virgil would already be rolling up his sleeves for a fight, and also if virgil _had_ had feelings for that long he wouldn’t be _virgil._

“right,” logan says. “anyways. you and virgil?”

“well,” his dad says, carving a swirling pattern into the surface of his ice cream with his spoon, “we’re, um. we’re actually going on our first date tomorrow night.”

logan’s eyebrows arch. “oh?” he says, and tries not to sound too excited for them.

“we’re going out to dinner,” patton says. “um—somewhere out of town a bit, i think. i’m not really sure on much, other than to dress nice, virgil wanted to surprise me.”

logan’s eyebrows arch higher. _virgil_ and _surprise…_

“i know,” patton agrees, seemingly knowing exactly where his train of thought is going, “but i think he’s a lot better with _planning_ surprises than he is with _receiving_ surprises.”

logan accepts this with a nod and eats a spoonful of ice cream. 

“so,” patton says. “i’ll leave a twenty on the fridge, and you can go out and get whatever you want, okay?”

“okay,” logan agrees. 

“and maybe,” patton says, “stay _in_ with a certain someone?” and waggles his eyebrows. logan sighs.

“aren’t parents supposed to _discourage_ home-alone dates?”

“oh, i definitely will later,” he says. “but i _also_ remember, when the stereotypical _home alone_ activity between teenagers came up, a certain someone hiding under this very table—”

logan half-heartedly attempts to kick patton’s ankle.

“that was _your fault,”_ logan rebukes him.

“maybe so,” patton says, in a tone that logan’s sure he thinks sounds sly. “but, i mean. if you and roman want to watch a netflix movie and have a cuddle, or if you just wanna sit in your room and read—regardless, budget i’m leaving behind for dinner’s a twenty, okay?”

logan nods; his brain is now very suddenly busy thinking about how nice it really _would_ be to invite roman over for a cuddle.

they eat the rest of their bowls in silence; patton rinses them out, to clear the worst of any lingering sticky residue, before stacking them in the sink.

they’re about to head upstairs, before logan says, “dad?”

his father turns, a hand on the doorway.

“yeah, kiddo?” he asks softly.

logan licks his lips, before he says, “you seem happy.”

he doesn’t have to specify it’s a question. his dad smiles wide.

“i am, kid.”

/

roman hums and spins himself in an inexact little waltz as he twirls his way toward his mother and virgil at the counter; his mother, leaning over an empty plate and a fresh cup of tea, virgil, leaning toward her in kind, clearly in the middle of a conversation.

roman drops himself on the stool next to his mother, beaming.

“i’m in _love,”_ he announces.

virgil snorts and asks, “good date, then?”

“the _best,”_ he declares, then turns to his mother and repeats, “i’m in _love,_ mama.”

“i heard you,” she says, amused. “so i’m to assume he’s been gentlemanly, then?”

“the _most_ gentlemanly,” he assures her. 

“and you?” his mother says.

roman puts a hand over his heart. “i’ve been as chivalrous as our name implies.”

virgil mutters something along the lines of _as long as you don’t fall asleep on this date with him and give us all heart attacks again_ , and roman shoots him A Look before turning back to his mother.

she nods, once, before she says, “how was the movie?”

so roman tells her all about what he can remember, in between the snatches of looking at logan, lit up by the black-and-white screen, and logan leaning into his side when he put an arm over his shoulders, and the way he’d blushed after roman pulled away from their kiss. 

virgil listens to this, even as he’s wiping down the counters and checking to make sure the coffee filters are clear, and once roman winds down, he says, “you two are—i mean. it’s good between you two, right?”

“i am,” roman repeats, a little offended, “ _in love.”_

“i heard you,” virgil says dryly, “it’s just—you’d tell us, me or your mom, i mean, if anything ever… wasn’t?”

roman surveys him for a few seconds; as he’s grown older, it hasn’t exactly _evaded_ his attention that the reason his father and virgil bonded in the first place was likely commiseration over their mental health issues. and while roman didn’t have anything really resembling intrusive thoughts—save for the incredibly vivid and often unsettling dreams he has every couple months—he knows that it’s something virgil keeps an eye out for.

his mother does, too, as if it weren’t clear from the way she’s pointedly looking at him with her mug of tea in hand.

“yes,” roman says, “except everything _is_ good right now, mike bran-anxious. you don’t have to worry about me.”

his brow furrows.

“it’d make more sense if you’d seen the movie,” roman informs him wisely, and any confusion over the nickname clears. 

“fine, fine,” virgil says. “but, seriously—”

roman rolls his eyes, but he promises, “i will tell either of you if anything goes wrong in my life. i swear if you managed to jinx my math final’s grade by asking me about it right now—”

his mother’s eyes narrow. “ _should_ we be particularly worried about your math grade?”

“i _hate_ math, you _know_ that,” roman tells her. “ _you_ hate math too. _anyways._ the date was exceptional, i am very happy, so can you _please_ stop fretting?”

virgil surveys him, like he’s making sure he’s telling the truth, before he says, “fine.”

“we’re pleased for you,” his mother says. 

a beat of silence. his mother gives virgil a baleful look.

virgil jumps, and says hastily, “right, yeah, we’re—i mean, we’re happy if you’re happy, you know that, kid.”

roman pauses, balancing his probabilities, before he tries, “happy enough to let me have some cherry pie and ice cream?”

virgil turns to look at his mother.

his mother surveys roman—who has his best pleading face on, all big brown eyes and clasped hands—and turns to virgil, saying, “ _small_ serving.”

roman whoops, pumping a fist with victory, and as roman eats a slice of warmed cherry pie with a scoop of lucy’s vanilla bean ice cream, he thinks that it might be one of the most perfect nights he’s ever had.

* * *

**first discussion of physical displays of affection**

logan has googled the term “living in his head rent-free,” and he was, in fact, correct in his original assumption of the definition: _when you are always thinking about someone; to live in the head of someone that can't stop thinking about you or anything to do with you_. 

if anything, it seems like an _understatement._

because his brain strays to moments that seem to be permanently etched into his hippocampus: roman’s arm over his shoulders, roman’s hand on his thigh, roman’s fingers twined with his own, roman pressed against his side, roman’s fingers tilting up his chin, roman’s lips on his—

—and it’s just. it’s just _very_ distracting and it is _certainly_ confusing.

because he isn’t _good_ with people touching him. and even if he was—for instance, he could almost always handle any signs of affection from his dad, or from virgil—it tended to be touch-and-go, and not an _always_ thing, and so it had been with _roman,_ before they’d dated.

but _now_ his brain was all filled up with those moments—roman knocking his knee against his, pressing a kiss to his cheek, a hand at his back—and he—he _likes_ them. he likes them very much.

the truth is: he wants roman to do it _more._

_but that doesn’t make_ ** _sense,_** his brain argues, and so it loops back around again, to fixating on the touches from roman and craving more, to attempting to dissect _why_ he likes it _now,_ to trying to get close to an answer but, figuratively, ripping it up before he could settle on _that_ being the reason.

he hasn’t managed to break out of the cycle by the time he and roman are sitting in a booth at virgil’s. 

virgil’s back in the kitchen, and patton’s already gone home to gear up for the new semester for his business degree, and so logan and roman sit, any conversation they might have covered by the lunch rush, so long as any gossips don’t choose to eavesdrop—the most proficient town gossips are absent, though, logan’s checked.

and here’s something he’s thought, for quite a large segment of his life, but especially over the course of the past couple days: emotions were _confusing. exceptionally_ so. as much as logan would sometimes like to scoop out all of the messiness in his chest and lay it out on a table so that he could sort it into neat, precisely organized piles, to observe and take notes on, he _can’t,_ and so he’s left with this gradually-swelling mess that makes his stomach flip and his heart squeeze and his throat close up, ever so slightly.

_especially_ now. logan can’t believe he’s considering broaching this topic aloud _at all,_ much less in a _somewhat public space._

but he would be broaching it with _roman,_ who is, at the very least, much more capable at conversationally wrangling emotions than roman, and also his best friend that logan trusts with everything, and also his boyfriend that logan loves deeply. 

it, _logically,_ would make the most sense to discuss this with roman—he is not only logan’s previously established trusted confidante, but also the person that it _concerns—_ like asking another scientist to discuss any potential faults in a hypothesis. however, it _feels_ like something in his brain starts going _NO NO NO NO NO NO NO_ whenever logan even _considers_ being… _vulnerable,_ a word and a sensation that logan _distinctly_ dislikes, and—

“hey, you done?”

logan startles, focusing on roman, who’s smiling at him.

“or did you just get lost in that big old brain of yours?” he teases. “it’s just you’ve kind of been staring off into space for a couple minutes, and i was wondering if i could have the last of your fries.”

“oh,” logan says. “yes, of course,” and he pushes his plate in roman’s direction. 

roman flashes him a smile, all perfect white teeth, and starts to eat the last handful of fries that logan had neglected to consume. 

it dosen’t take him long to polish them off, but long enough that logan is once again circling back to potentially bringing up The Subject, but before he can roman dusts off his hands of salt, and says, “right, should we go?”

“where?”

roman considers this, tilting his head—they _do_ live in a small town, they aren’t exactly spoiled for choice—and offers, “library? remy’s, maybe?”

“the library,” logan agrees quickly; he’ll likely run into emile at remy’s, as if any potential universal signal to communicate _wouldn’t_ be perfectly emblemized by the presence of the town therapist, and the library will at least offer some privacy, as logan knows it will be desolate, and he can find quite a few corners that will be away from any eavesdroppers.

roman nods, stands, and then takes logan’s coat in his hands, shaking it out and offering it so that logan will be able to shrug into it. 

_i should_ **_not_ ** _be feeling a flutter in my chest at that,_ **_really_ ** _,_ he scolds himself, but scolding doesn’t change what’s already happened; it only gets worse when logan turns around to thank him, and roman absently reaches out to make sure that his collar’s lying correctly, his fingers brushing against logan’s neck.

it takes logan two tries to get his zipper to latch so he can zip up his coat.

roman, thankfully, doesn’t notice, preoccupied by his own coat and tugging on a pair of gloves, before he gestures to the door.

they walk to the library. roman laces his fingers between his. logan makes himself follow the breathing exercise he’s memorized since he was a child, at virgil’s insistence.

true to logan’s prediction, the library is, in fact, desolate—it’s a weekend during winter break, after all—and so logan pulls roman toward the most private back corner there is, one that has a loveseat and two armchairs, presumably space for a family to sit down and read, as it _is_ right beside the children’s section.

“you don’t wanna grab some books or anything?” roman says.

“eventually,” logan says vaguely, and they shed their coats, tossing them over the armchairs before they both settle on the loveseat, where roman reaches out to flick a strand of logan’s hair back in place—the wind must have tousled it—and—

“you’re very forward with your displays of physical affection,” logan blurts out, and, well. there it is, the conversation’s started.

roman blinks at him, fingers stilling, and he says, “and?”

logan blinks back. “what?”

“it just,” roman says, and shrugs, pulling his hand free of logan’s hair. “it sounded like there was an ‘and’ or a ‘but’ coming. was there?”

“it—” logan begins, and then he stutters, “well—i, um, it—it just—”

“...yeah?” roman says slowly, brow creasing, and logan swallows, looking down at roman’s hands, on his own thighs, and logan’s on his; so close, and yet, not touching.

logan would like them to be.

“….it’s actually kind of nice,” logan admits, very quietly.

there’s a pause. then, very deliberately, roman leans over, and hooks his chin over logan’s shoulder, smiling up at him.

“you like it?”

logan’s certain that he’s gone stop-sign red.

“‘cause, i mean,” roman continues. “i do. like it, that is. i like it lots.”

logan couldn’t remember if he’s ever researched precise ranking of what ranked as the deepest shade of red, perhaps carmine or maroon, but he’s certain he’s reached that shade by now.

“i—i do, too,” logan admits. “but it—i mean, it’s _different._ for me.”

roman lifts his chin off of logan’s shoulder, but he keeps his arms looped around him in a loose sort of hug. he stays there as logan attempts to explain, those messy emotions swelling too-big in his chest all the while, rendering his speech bumbling, and logan struggles to articulate _precisely_ what it is about it, how he’s been thinking about it for _days,_ and he’s uncertain _why_ it is so different for him, when it comes to roman, why it’s all changed now, and how much—how much he _wants_ roman to touch him, to touch him in turn.

roman listens, staring at him thoughtfully, and saying nothing other than hums to indicate that he understands, in pauses when logan’s struggling for words. 

when logan manages to wind down with a somewhat pathetic, “i mean, it—does that make sense?” roman hums once more, and he goes a little red, himself. 

roman’s fingers brush gently at logan’s neck, before his finger presses at a very precise point.

“you have a freckle, right there,” roman says. “did you know?”

logan shakes his head, brow furrowed, because this seems like quite the non-sequitur. 

“i used to,” roman says, and huffs out a breath, before he admits, “i used to stare at it, when i sat behind you in class. and i’d think about putting my fingers against it, just like this, and pulling you in to kiss me. and, here—” his fingers drag down, to logan’s left bicep. “you’ve got three freckles here that make a perfect right-angle triangle. what’s the triangle with two equal sides called?”

“isosceles,” logan says faintly.

“ _right,”_ roman says. “you have this perfect isosceles triangle, right here. i’d only ever be able to see them when it was warm outside and you wore short sleeves, and i thought about wrapping my hand around your arm like this,” he curls his fingers, placing his palm flat precisely over the freckles, “and, and. um. you aren’t, like, _freckly,_ but you’d always get more whenever it would be sunny, and i’d stare at them and i’d just think about tracing them with my fingers, all day. counting them. you, letting me, and you’d know i was doing it to show you that i loved you.”

there is a strange lump in logan’s throat.

“and,” roman says, moving his hand from logan’s arm to rest his fingers gently against logan’s cheek, “when i’d sit behind you, i could always see just a little bit of your cheek, this part, because of the way you’d tilt your head to look at the whiteboard, and i’d think about being able to lean forward and kiss you on the cheek, one day, and you’d let me, and you’d know i was doing it to show you that i loved you.”

“roman—”

his fingers move to logan’s forehead.

“and—and you’d furrow your eyebrows, whenever you were staring at something you couldn’t figure out,” roman says softly, “and all i could think about would be the day i could kiss them away, and you’d let me, and you’d know i was doing it to show you that i loved you.”

his fingers drag down, to rest against logan’s neck again, but this time his fingers rest lightly over pulse point.

“and sometimes,” roman continues, “you’d loosen your tie, and i’d be able to see right _here,_ and all of your neck, and i’d go _crazy,_ thinking all about being able to do this—”

he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to logan’s throat, and logan breathes out “ _oh”_ before he can stop himself, because _that—_

“—and you’d let me,” roman murmurs, “and you’d know i was doing it to show you that i loved you.”

“roman,” logan repeats, the lump in his throat not allowing him to say much else.

“sometimes,” roman says, “sometimes, i think if you cracked me open i’d be full of those moments where i stole looks at you and wished i could do this—touch you, kiss you—and now… now, i can.”

logan wonders how even an hour earlier he could have possibly disliked the word _vulnerable,_ because roman’s leaning toward him, eyes open and trusting and so carefully offering logan this, all these moments of quietly adoring him from afar, and logan cannot possibly think of a thing more beautiful in this very moment than roman’s vulnerability.

“so, i don’t get wanting touching to be kind of _all of a sudden,_ but i get… _wanting it._ i get that,” he pauses, tilting his head, before roman says, “i’m saying this in the most empathetic and understanding way possible, but—”

logan waits.

“i mean,” roman says, and shrugs. “does it matter _why_ you like it when i touch you?”

before logan can even open his mouth to argue, roman says, “i mean. i know it’s a change, for you, and i can understand that it’s weird for you. i’m not arguing that that probably takes some thinking. i’m just saying, well—if you never figure out _exactly why_ you like it when i touch you, now that we’re all romantic and everything, will it be the end of the world?”

“i suppose not,” logan says.

“okay,” roman says, and he shrugs. “maybe this is the honeymoon phase, and you wanting me to be all physical about displaying affection will die down. or, maybe this is just the new normal for us. maybe it’s because you don’t like platonic touching as much as you might like romantic touch. maybe, at that point in your life, you _were_ particular about who touches you and how, and maybe you’re transitioning to a place where you’re more comfortable with it. maybe it’s because physical touch is a love language of yours. it could be a combination of reasons. but, i mean. the thing that’s important to _me,”_ roman emphasizes, and presses a kiss to logan’s shoulder to emphasize it, “is that you’re comfortable with the amount i’m touching you, and that you’re happy, because i love you.” 

“i love you too.”

“okay,” roman says, and pecks logan’s cheek. “good. and if slash when you _do_ have a day where you decide you don’t want to be touched at all, you tell me, so i can make sure you keep being comfortable and happy, because i love you. that doesn’t change just based on whether or not you want me to hold your hand. i can show you i love you in other ways. okay?”

logan swallows, eyes suddenly stinging, and he says hoarsely, “okay.”

“okay,” roman repeats, and says, “so, um. d’you wanna pick out books, now? i wanna hear your recommendations, i feel like i’m due to read some kind of classic.”

logan nods, and they hold hands as logan leads him to the classics aisle, pulling out _evelina_ for roman before he’s due for a reread of _northanger abbey,_ himself, and he can perhaps blame it on all those confusing feelings piling up in his chest that makes him pull roman into the aisle that houses the out-of-date encyclopedias and kiss him.

it is with _that_ that the _other_ realization he had at the b.w.r. comes to the forefront of his mind, especially when logan bumps noses with roman somewhat painfully and his lips don’t seem to work right: logan is an _exceptionally_ clumsy kisser.

logan scowls at _northanger abbey_ once they’re both at the loveseat again, though jane austen hasn’t particularly done anything to irritate him lately; it seems that as soon as logan untangles _one_ particularly confusing wave of emotions, another one swells larger to overtake it.

_this,_ logan thinks sourly, _is why emotions and i don’t get along,_ despite the _incredibly_ pleasant way that roman spends the entire afternoon at the library tracing soothing patterns up and down logan’s back.

* * *

**first stolen hoodie**

it happens because of an accident; logan goes over to the prince's apartment after the majority of an afternoon spent at the _courant,_ and it hits him by the time he's barely even entered the town square that he's forgotten his coat. it _is_ winter on the east coast, after all, it's not exactly _difficult_ to detect the fact he's cold, and it’s windy, and the sleet that’s been on-and-off all day is starting to pick up, the worst kind where the ice crystals hit at logan’s face and ping off his glasses with a striking accuracy, but going back would lengthen his trip time and if he does so he will certainly be late, so logan just crosses his arms tightly across his chest, and ducks his head to at least somewhat protect his face from the wind, and doggedly pursues his route to the prince dance studio.

roman must hear him coming up the stairs, because he swings open the door, and then he scowls at the sight of him even as logan finishes his ascent.

“hello,” logan says.

instead of any of his particularly declarative greetings— _hello my love, how are you, my darling?—_ roman instead scowls at him and says, “you’re all wet.”

logan manages to fight off the urge to shake out his hair like a dog, and says instead, “it’s sleeting; the weather report said it might turn to snow later.”

roman frowns at him deeper, and says, “where’s your coat?”

“left it at the _courant,”_ logan says, and follows roman into the apartment; there’s a soft classical arrangement of christmas music playing, and there’s the faint scent of cinnamon in the air.

roman mutters something under his breath along the lines of _sure, you get all fussy when_ ** _i_** _forget my coat, but when it comes to_ ** _you_** that logan politely pretends not to hear. he instead attempts to shake the cold-induced numbness out of his fingers so he’ll be coordinated enough to wipe his glasses clear, and greets ms. prince.

“hello, logan,” she says. she’s at the kitchen table, and logan recognizes the catalogues that must hold dance costumes. she looks at him over her oval-shaped reading glasses, and says, “i suppose the weather gave some sort of report as to how much snow we’re expecting?”

“the meteorologist said a couple inches this morning,” logan says, finally managing to find a corner of his shirt dry enough to clear his glasses without leaving behind annoying streaks, “but it might have changed since i last looked.”

ms. prince looks rather irritated at this—she is not a fan of wintry weather, or unpredictability, for that matter—before she returns her attention to her logs of dance costumes and says, “when you two go to roman’s room, leave the door open.”

“ _mama,”_ roman starts to complain, but ms. prince looks up and says something in spanish in a sharp, insistent tone. roman sighs out what logan can recognize as the spanish equivalent of _yes, ma’am,_ and gestures at logan to follow him.

roman’s room is, as roman himself has described, an _instagram dream;_ the walls are painted a delicate off-white, with fairy lights strung all about the ceiling, giving everything a soft, hazy glow. there’s a fluffy white rug that dominates most of the floor that’s just as inviting to stand on as it looks; roman’s combination desk-vanity is a dark wood that matches the floors, and the chair is gold with a fluffy white cushion. 

his bed is covered with a luxurious-looking red comforter, and, as it’s unmade, logan can see the messy piles of soft, cozy blankets that roman sleeps under for the winter; there’s a full-length mirror in the corner by his closet, the bulbs embedded in the frame turned off, for now. roman swaps out wall decorations as he pleases; right now, there’s square photographs of a variety of roman’s favorite albums with the spotify code underneath laid out in a neat grid formation. there’s a matching grid of photographs on the wall above his bed; logan himself, he’s pleased to notice, is featured quite a few times, along with his dad, and virgil, and ms. prince, and the motley crew that forms roman’s various dance friends and acquaintances. 

roman proceeds to over-exaggeratedly leave the door cracked, open enough to satisfy the rules but closed enough that they might have _some_ privacy, before turning his attention back to logan, stepping closer.

“you should’ve gone back to get your coat.”

“i would’ve been late,” logan says. roman reaches out and takes logan’s hands, scowling.

“you’re freezing,” roman says.

“yes, one tends to be after walking around in precipitation at the literal freezing temperature,” logan says, but it lacks any of the sarcastic impact it usually would; roman’s hands are warm, and dry, and it feels _exceptionally_ nice to hold them and feel some warmth start to circulate back into his fingers.

“and you’re all wet,” roman continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. “ _seriously,_ you couldn’t have just doubled back for your jacket?”

logan frowns. “i wanted to see you.”

roman starts to smile, the one that logan’s starting to think might just be for _him;_ it is _also_ exceptionally nice to see. 

“still,” roman mutters, but logan can tell it’s put behind them, at least for now.

“i’ll ask my dad to pick it up from rudy before he comes to virgil’s for dinner tonight,” logan proposes, and that wipes the last of any of roman’s potential fretting (his heart squeezes—roman! _fretting!_ over him!!!) off of his face.

“all right, good,” roman says, but then he lets go of logan’s hands to pluck lightly at the shoulder of logan’s button-down and says, “do you want to borrow a hoodie or something? this is soaked, i can throw it in the dryer or something. it might help you get warm quicker.”

“it _is_ recommended to remove wet clothing first when it comes to hypothermia patients,” logan agrees, then quickly amends, “not that i have hypothermia, it’s just—”

“yeah, yeah, yeah,” roman says, already digging through his closet. “anyways, don’t go thinking that your hypothermia case means you can pick the snacks we’re about to have—”

“—i already know that you’re going to have us eat popcorn—”

instead of answering, roman tosses him a bundle of black fabric, and then it seems to hit both of them at the same time.

“i can, um,” roman says, and clears his throat, before jerking his thumb toward the living room.

“it’s fine,” logan says, and—it is, he realizes. it’s fine. he’s perfectly fine with the concept of changing in front of roman.

“or i can—”

“it’s _fine,”_ logan repeats, softer. it’s not like he’s never taken his shirt off in front of roman before. he has, plenty of times—to change into pajamas during sleepovers, to get ready to jump into the pool, to swap over to an outfit that’s roman-approved. he’s changed in front of roman in this exact same context before, even—getting out of cold, wet clothes, and into something warmer after a snow day. it’s not like, just because they’re dating, by seeing logan shirtless roman’s about to—

logan breaks that train of thought, but by the way he’s surely going scarlet might be giving him away.

“if it makes you more comfortable, you can—” logan starts, but roman’s going a little red, too, but he’s staying where he’s standing.

logan clears his throat, before he sets the hoodie down on roman’s desk. he tugs off his tie, setting that down on roman’s desk, too, before he turns his attention to the buttons of his shirt. 

he would blame any fumbling on the frigidness of his fingers, if anyone had asked. 

logan pauses, sneaking a glance at roman, who has passed a _little_ red and is in fact _very_ red—logan supposes they match, in that sense—and shrugs out of the shirt. he holds it out for roman.

“um—?”

“for the dryer?” logan prompts, and it is _perhaps_ a bit of an ego trip to watch roman nod vociferously and attempt to grab at the shirt twice before he has to tilt his head to look at it and ensure he is actually taking it. logan turns back to the desk to pick up the hoodie.

in the vanity mirror, he can see roman’s eyes trace over his back, and he tries his very hardest not to smirk.

well, if he does, he can at least hide it somewhat as he pulls the hoodie on.

logan stares at himself (and, yes, roman too) in the mirror as he adjusts the hoodie, making sure it sits right on him. it’s a black one that advertises the dance intensive roman went to last summer, up in new york. logan may be taller a bit taller, now, but he’s rather skinny and roman has more in the way of muscles so it would even out, in terms of clothes. it shouldn’t surprise logan that it fits him perfectly. but it does, and he can’t help but fiddle a little with the sleeves. he looks up instinctively when he hears sound behind him, and makes eye contact with roman in the mirror.

roman’s brown eyes look so dark that they’re almost black; logan can’t tell if it’s because of the low light in the room or if his pupils have dilated. logan swallows, and tries to fight off the urge to flush. as usual, he isn’t particularly successful.

“you look good,” roman says, voice lower than it usually is.

logan clears his throat, and breaks eye contact—it feels too intense, too… _much._ for all that logan is aware that romantic relationships imply new emotion, and for all that he’d even managed to discuss them with roman, a little bit, it didn’t make them _not_ difficult to manage.

“thanks,” he rasps out.

a pause.

“i’ll go drop this in the dryer, then,” he says. “netflix should be open on my laptop, um. if you can get the movie ready?”

logan manages to regain some composure, then, and utters an affirmative, even managing to sound perfectly normal. he crosses over to roman’s bed, pulling roman’s laptop closer and searching for the 2005 version of _pride and prejudice_ —roman had decided the movie, but logan does quite like jane austen, so it’s not particularly a chore—as roman plods out of his room and toward the small room that doubles as a laundry room and utility closet. 

the hoodie is comfortable. he glances toward the door, again, before he closes his eyes, pulls the neckline of the hoodie up over his nose, and inhales deeply.

laundry detergent, most predominantly, but also cologne, floral body wash, and faintest of all, the perfectly natural, incredibly human scent that they were trying to cover _—roman_ . logan feels a little dizzy, and barely lets out the breath before he breathes in again, his favorite smells, excepting books and ink and coffee, but the hoodie is _warm_ and _roman’s_ and it’s wrapped all around logan and it _smells like him—_

the footsteps come back, and logan quickly tugs the neckline back down to its normal place, before he quickly pretends like he’s been preoccupied with finding the movie this whole time.

“okay, i put the shirt in, i got snacks, time to watch!” roman says brightly, waving a large bag of pre-made, ms. prince-approved popcorn at logan before he crawls onto the bed, too, settling next to logan, grabbing one of his soft, fuzzy blankets at random and tossing it over the pair of them, before pressing beside logan, so they could balance the laptop together on their thighs.

it takes logan until the start of the ball to move his arm in what he hopes is a casual way, settling it over roman’s shoulders.

for a moment, roman’s a bit stiff, and logan almost withdraws immediately, but then roman sighs, content, and cuddles closer, leaning so that logan will rest his cheek against his hair.

(logan wears the hoodie to bed; he nearly gets toothpaste on it from the way he’s smiling at himself in the mirror, the way he looks in his old blue flannel pajama bottoms and _roman’s hoodie._ but, at least, when he curls up in bed, he can tug the neckline up over his nose and inhale and inhale and inhale again to his heart’s extent without fear of roman walking in on him doing it.)

(so, logan discovers, there is _perhaps_ quite a bit of truth to the stereotype of stealing boyfriend’s hoodies. it basically immediately becomes his go-to pajama top. it is only his sense of willpower that prevents him from walking around wearing it _all the time;_ it makes it feel a little more special, a little more _his,_ whenever he wears it when he’s alone. he is uncertain as to specifically _why_ it provides him with such a sense of excitement, but it _does._ it only starts to wane as roman’s scent wanes, the longer it spends away from him.)

(a week and a half after he’s taken the hoodie in the first place, after roman comes over for dinner, logan can’t find roman’s black hoodie, only to be stumble across a red and white _sideshire high minutemen_ one left in the exact same place—he can tell it’s roman’s and not his own from the **_PRINCE_ ** emblazoned across the back of it. it gives him almost twice as much of the slightly absurd thrill to realize that he’s got roman’s _name_ on him.)

* * *

**first makeout session**

roman feels, quite frankly, _fantastic._

he’s in that fuzzy zone between sleep and waking, placed there firmly by logan’s blunt fingernails scratching gently over his scalp, the quiet, consistently comforting monotone of his voice as he reads poetry, a lo-fi playlist of roman’s selection in the background because logan picked the poet, and roman basks in it, eyes closed. the weather is cloudy and dreary and perfect for staying indoors, and there’s the taste of peppermint hot chocolate still lingering faintly in his mouth, and he’s dressed in his comfiest red sweater, and he has his head in a boy’s lap. 

it’s the _dream._

if he had told roman, six months ago, that he would have his head in logan’s lap as logan read him poetry and scratched his scalp and that they _knew_ that they loved each other, he probably would have thought it to be too wonderful to be true. but it is true, and it _is_ wonderful.

he’s cozy, and warm, and he’s listening to logan read sylvia plath, and life is perfect.

“... _the walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. the tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; they are opening like the mouth of some great african cat, and i am aware of my heart: it opens and closes its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. the water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, and comes from a country far away as health,”_ logan reads, then, “am i a bad kisser?”

it takes roman a slightly embarrassing too-long few seconds to realize that last part is _not,_ in fact, a line by plath, and he cracks his eyes open to see logan staring fixedly at the book, his hand gone stiff in roman’s hair.

“ _what?”_ he says, and then he sits up a little, regretfully dislodging logan’s hand. 

“am i,” logan says, and flushes red, then mutters petulantly, “you _heard_ me.”

“i _did,”_ roman says, propping himself on his elbows but still not quite moving to sit up fully, “which is why i’m confused. logan, what made you think—”

logan huffs, rolling over briefly to pick up his phone from the nightstand, before he unlocks it, taps the screen for a few times, and then—

roman blinks, taking the phone after logan shakes it emphatically at him.

“is this a spreadsheet?” roman asks, scrolling carefully along, seeing all the little blocks of cells.

“yes,” logan says, “and _look.”_

roman obligingly zooms out a little—there are _charts_ and _graphs_ —and scrolls along, seeing notations such as _wf1, wf2, bwr1, bwr2,_ rated out of ten, in columns labeled with _l-initiated, r-initiated,_ _l-led,_ and _r-led,_ all the way down to the bottom, noting four graphs. one red, one blue, two with a mix of both. 

the red rates are significantly higher than the blue.

roman puts it together, then; logan has been attempting to _track_ their _kisses._ he’s lost count of each and every one, it’s pretty clear—roman has too, to be perfectly honest—but _still._ they’re fairly extensive records.

logan. kept _records._ of their _kisses._

“don’t _laugh,”_ logan huffs, and roman looks up, then, realizing that he’s started to smile.

“i’m not laughing,” roman promises, and allows his smile to widen when logan huffs louder.

“i’m _not,”_ he insists, smiling, reaching for logan’s hand; logan, red-faced, still accepts it, and gets even redder when roman kisses his knuckles.

“you _charted_ our _kisses,”_ roman says. “i am absolutely besotted with you.” 

logan, seemingly having hit the top of his _outward expression of emotion_ meter, looks away; roman takes a second to take in how _red_ he is, and how adorable he is, and also the way he’s grinning all goofy just because he’s managed to get logan blushing.

“however,” roman announces, “the charts are _wrong.”_

logan’s head swivels right back to him, scowling, ready to start bickering.

“i mean, really, l,” roman says. “ _one,_ you’ve only got information from a biased source—”

“then _answer,”_ logan says. “am i?”

“no,” roman says firmly. “no, you’re not _bad_ at kissing.”

logan’s brow furrows. “but,” he prompts.

“you’re just,” roman says, and sighs a little, before he says, “you’re just _new_ to it, that’s all.”

logan’s brow furrows further. “so i’m bad at it.”

“ _hey_ ,” roman scolds. “that’s not what i said. i said you’re _new_ to it.”

logan’s expression changes, then; brow still furrowed, but less pouty (god, logan would kill him if roman ever said he was pouting, but roman’s _right,_ he’s _pouting)_ and more inquisitive.

“define the difference,” he says eventually, and roman rolls over onto his side, then, looking up at logan.

“well, it’s like everything else, really,” roman points out. “would you say your _first_ article’s as good as your articles now?”

“of course not,” logan says, “i was seven.”

“ _right,”_ roman says. “and my turns now are better than my turns were when i was two, and your editing skills are better now than they were even last year, and—”

“and you started kissing other people earlier than me,” logan puts together.

“ _right,”_ roman says, delicately sidestepping the topic of _jess_ that they haven’t really covered yet, “since _my_ first kiss was in spin-the-bottle at age twelve with sam behnken—”

“i still can’t believe you kissed _sam behnken_ ,” logan grumbles.

“—and _yours_ was with _me_ , i’ve had more practice than you. you just need to get used to it, that’s all. you’re not _bad_ at it, you’re just...” roman wracks his brain for a proper word, “under-rehearsed.”

logan pauses. “under-rehearsed,” he repeats, like he’s trying to pronounce it for the first time.

“yeah,” roman says, waits a beat, then waggles his eyebrows, sitting up fully. “and you know what they say about practice—”

logan puffs out a stream of air, but he leans forward so they can meet in the middle anyway.

their lips meet, practically chaste, at first; just pressing their lips together.

and then roman can feel logan hesitate, and tilts his head so their foreheads press together, waiting silently.

“would you,” logan begins, and hesitates, before reaching over to play with roman’s fingers, a fidget disguised as affection; or maybe affection disguised as a fidget, roman can’t really be sure.

“would i?” roman prompts, when he goes silent. 

“just,” logan says. “would you… talk to me?”

“talk to you,” roman echoes.

“you know,” logan says, and squirms a little bit. “tell me what you… like? what you dislike?”

roman smiles. “you want me to tutor you in how to best kiss me?”

logan huffs, and roman takes advantage of it to lean forward and press their lips together once again, logan’s huff of irritation turning into a soft sigh.

“okay, well, first,” roman murmurs against his mouth. “you tell _me_ if you don’t like what i’m doing.”

“deal,” logan murmurs.

“okay,” roman says, and presses their lips together again before he pulls back, just a little, just enough to talk. “the important thing is—less is more, when it comes to kissing.”

logan hums, and roman can feel the vibration of it on his own lips, sending a little thrill down his spine. 

“like this,” roman breathes, and just barely nips at logan’s bottom lip, and logan inhales sharply—roman’s about to pull back and ask if he’s okay, but logan’s fingers tangle themselves deeply into his hair and tug him closer, and _okay,_ they are _kissing,_ roman’s awareness of the world narrowing down to the slight tug of his hair and the wet slide of logan’s mouth against his own as roman _kisses_ him, trying his very best to be gentle, and soft, and slow, so that logan can _feel_ it and know how perfectly _nice_ it can be—roman has a brief, hysterical mental image of logan breaking their kiss to lean over and jot it down in that _chart_ of his alongside a list of strategies before asking roman if he would do that one more time, please, as to see if the hypothesis holds with a repetition of the experiment—and god, _god,_ how could logan _ever_ think he would be bad at kissing, when roman’s entire world is tilting and the only thing grounding him is _this,_ logan’s hand in his hair, roman’s hand blindly fumbling forward until it lands somewhere—logan’s shoulder?—and he squeezes ever so slightly, pulling logan closer.

logan’s lips, so soft and pliable and _lovely,_ parting for him, just for him, and at the same time logan’s hand slides out of his hair to rest against the nape of roman’s neck, roman pulls back enough to grumble “ _bad_ at _kissing_ ,” and he hears and feels logan stifle a laugh against his mouth, “ _honestly”_ and very suddenly logan’s in his lap—honestly, he’s not sure if he’d just scooted that much closer or if roman pulled him. he isn’t particularly sure if he _cares_ , but—

roman pulls back so that he can see logan’s eyes, his pretty chocolate brown eyes.

roman asks in a scratchy voice, “you all good?”

“very much,” logan says breathlessly. “just—adjustments?”

roman lets go of him so that logan can get comfortable, and he adjusts, too, moving his hands to brace logan’s waist.

he isn’t really sure what he’s thinking—his brain feels like it’s vibrating in his skull, the most eloquent thought he’s having is roughly equivalent to reading a paragraph full of exclamation marks—but he _does_ have the passing thought that it’s probably good that logan’s the one hovering above him, the first time they’re like _this_ , all the better to be able to easily pull away, if he wants, just in case he gets nervous or jumpy. roman has been daydreaming about kissing logan like this for _years,_ but gosh, he wants _logan_ to enjoy it as much as he’s sure he’s about to.

any thoughts in his brain _immediately_ flee as logan wraps his legs around roman’s waist, seemingly having found the most comfortable way to sit—not that roman _isn’t_ comfortable, mind you.

“yes?” logan checks.

instead of answering, roman leans in, and places an open-mouthed kiss to logan’s throat.

logan lets out the same breathy _“oh”_ that he’d made in the library, when roman had kissed him right there, right then, and the sound’s been replaying in his mind and it’s twice as lovely now as it was in his memory, and roman presses another kiss to the same spot, softer, chaste.

“do you like that?” he asks, looking up at logan.

“ _yes,”_ logan says breathlessly, and pulls at roman’s hair, and so roman leans up and places an identically open-mouthed kiss to the hinge of logan’s jaw.

he wishes he could use flowery language to describe it, the way all his romance novels have—the love interest always tastes of honey or chocolate or whiskey something delectable and edible. but logan’s skin tastes just like that, skin—there are no artful metaphors that roman can make.

he doesn’t think there’s any _need_ of metaphors, when his hands are braced around the lowest portion of logan’s ribs, and he can _feel_ as much as he can hear logan’s sharp inhales of breath when he kisses a slow trail down his throat. he doesn’t need metaphors to describe the way logan’s ribcage expands and contracts under his very hands, the movement and power of logan’s lungs the only way that roman can manage to keep time when time is so easily slipping away as he presses his lips to logan’s throat again and again, how very grateful he is for something as simple as _breathing._ he doesn’t need metaphors to describe logan’s warm weight bearing down his lap, the meat of his thighs against roman’s own waist, the way that logan’s back arches under his hands to meet him—bones, muscles, skin. 

he’s never appreciated the science of the human body like logan has before, until now. until it’s logan’s breath and pulse and heat and weight showing him how truly miraculous it all can be.

his teeth catch against logan’s pulse, and logan _moans,_ and as much as it makes a thrill shoot its way down roman’s spine, all the way down to his _toes,_ it also makes him pull back.

logan looks down at him with bleary eyes, kiss-addled, and roman forces himself to say, “we should, um—we should stop. before we get carried away.”

logan’s eyes clear, then, only slightly, and he nods, before he rolls himself off of roman to land on his back. roman huffs a laugh, and flops back to join him—the pair of them on their backs, in logan’s bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to catch their breath.

and also, _holy fuck,_ roman’s brain is shouting at him, _holy fuck, you_ **_made out_ ** _with logan and had him in your_ **_lap—!_ **

“so,” roman says, once he manages to get his breath and get his brain under control, at least a little bit. “after _all that,_ you _better_ not say that you think you are a _bad kisser.”_

logan laughs, still a little breathless, and says, “you’ve certainly assuaged me of that particular fear.”

“damn right i have,” roman mutters. “delete that chart, your data was _clearly_ inaccurate.”

“i will,” logan promises, then, softer, so soft that roman isn’t fully sure logan’s meant to say it, “ _wow.”_

a big goofy grin springs onto roman’s face. “ _yeah.”_

they lie there together in silence for a bit longer, until their breathing evens out fully. logan turns his head on the pillow, and roman does in kind; they’re so close that all that looms in roman’s vision is logan’s eyes.

“i remember the first moment i wanted to do something like that with you,” roman blurts out, and logan lifts his eyebrows, but wiggles ever so slightly closer; a _go on,_ roman thinks.

“it was the fourth of july,” roman says. “we were—oh, i can’t remember. thirteen, i think? maybe twelve or fourteen. somewhere around there. but i—”

roman swallows, and continues, “we’d been swimming, most of the day, so we were still in our swim trunks by the time it was the fireworks show. you were wearing those blue swim trunks, do you remember those? the ones with the waves on them.”

logan nods.

“and virgil’d made cupcakes for it,” roman says. “and you ate one of the blue ones with the star on it, and you had this little bit of icing right,” he narrows his eyes, and gently presses a finger just above the left swell of his upper lip, “ _there,_ and you were lying down on a towel all propped up on your elbows, and looking up at the sky, and watching the show, but i just… it felt like i _couldn’t_ look away from you, seeing you like that, and your skin was all lit up from the fireworks, red and purple and blue and gold, and it reflected off your glasses, too, and all i wanted was…”

it’s such a clear picture in his mind, even now. the way his collarbone was so clear, from the way he was lying down; the column of his neck tilted back, exposed; a few stray water droplets on his chest; watching his ribs expand and contract with his breath; logan, bathed in multicolored light, watching the fireworks with a little bit of awe, seemingly not at all aware of roman _staring_ at him, because he’d looked so…. 

he swallows, before he smiles a little sheepishly, and says, “well. let’s say it was the first time i had _pg-13_ thoughts about you, logan sanders.”

logan reddens, a little, and roman feels pleased to see it.

he doesn’t expect logan to close the distance, and to feel logan’s lips against his.

roman inhales, and pulls him in closer, logan taking advantage of roman parting his lips to slip his tongue between them, and they _kiss,_ for a while; not as heated and near-desperate before, but slow, and savory, and it still makes roman’s toes curl as he sighs deeply with satisfaction.

logan’s the one to pull away, this time, and _this_ time he looks sheepish.

“we said we wouldn’t get carried away,” he mumbles.

roman sighs, but he says, “yeah, you’re right. should we cuddle instead?”

and so they adjust, getting comfortable, and at last they settle with logan’s head on roman’s chest, roman’s arm wrapped around him with a hand tangled in his hair, scratching his scalp, and roman holding the plath collection in his hands, squinting at the page.

“where were we?” roman says. “ah, yes, in the pit of despair.”

he can just barely see logan’s eyes narrow, trying to place the reference, before he says, “ _princess bride?”_

“ _totally_ our next movie night,” roman says.

“you picked last time,” logan argues.

“but _c’mon,”_ roman says. “that movie is _great._ i’m totally westley.”

logan scoffs, burrowing closer. “you are _not_ , you’re buttercup. _i’m_ westley.”

“what!” roman says. “no way—”

“oh, _please,”_ logan says. “between the pair of us, _who_ is more likely to be the sarcastic princess?”

roman scowls, but says, “you aren’t _westley,_ though.”

“who am i, then?”

“inigo.”

“i am _not_ inigo!” logan says indignantly, rising his head off roman’s chest to look him in the eye.

“no?” roman challenges. “you wouldn’t dedicate your life to studying something to make sure you’re the best of the best at it?”

“you know who else dedicated himself to studying the ways of the world to better himself?” logan says pointedly. “ _westley.”_

“you’re impossible,” roman grumbles.

“you’re just mad because my reasoning makes more sense,” logan points out. “besides, with _my_ reasoning, our characters are romantically intertwined.”

“ugh, _whatever,”_ roman says. logan settles his head back onto roman’s chest, and roman smooths his fingers over his hair—it’s soft, softer than his, even.

“what conditioner do you use?”

“i just use shampoo,” logan murmurs, and of _course_ logan lucked his way into the softest hair possible while doing the bare minimum to care for it; _nooo,_ it couldn’t be _roman_ with the softest hair, not with him using shampoo _and_ conditioner, that just wouldn’t make _sense._

“sometimes,” roman huffs, “you are such a _guy.”_

“ _read,_ please,” logan says.

“fine _,”_ roman says, and begins, “ _old ella mason keeps cats, eleven at last count, in her ramshackle house off somerset terrace; people make queries on seeing our neighbor's cat-haunt, saying: ‘something's addled in a woman who accommodates that many cats...’_ ”

it’s a bit difficult, turning the pages of the poetry collection with just one hand, but he adjusts and he manages just fine; he gets so lost in reading the poetry aloud, in fact, that it takes until logan makes a soft snuffling noise that he realizes that logan’s fallen asleep.

logan’s. fallen _asleep._ on _him._ after they _made out_.

he’s cozy, and warm, and he’s cuddling logan, who has his head on his chest, fast asleep after roman read him sylvia plath, and life is perfect.

* * *

**first pet names (redux)**

logan wakes slowly.

he’s _aware_ that the lights are on behind his closed lids, and that he’s fallen asleep fully clothed, and he’s very comfortable, and that someone’s voice is rumbling poetry into his ear, but the voice stops when logan visibly stirs.

“welcome back to the land of the living, honey,” roman’s voice says, dryly amused, as logan blinks awake. 

he's in his room, which is familiar enough, but he's _on roman's chest,_ which is _decidedly_ unfamiliar, even as he decides he quite likes being able to listen to the steady beat of roman's heart thumping away in his chest.

logan hums, and it all comes rushing back to him—roman’s hands on his hips, his waist, his lips against logan’s neck—and he attempts to bury his face into roman’s chest without _looking_ like he’s burying his face into roman’s chest.

from roman’s soft laugh, he isn’t sure how successful he is in that endeavor. 

“did you have a good nap, baby?” roman continues, sounding even _more_ audibly amused, and he would probably _insufferably_ amused if he knew the way roman calling him _baby_ made something flare brightly in his chest.

“it would be substantially better if you didn’t _tease me upon waking_ , dear,” logan complains.

roman goes still.

logan manages to sit up, a little, as much as he can without disentangling them. “what?”

“nothing,” roman says, and smiles. “it’s just—you called me _dear.”_

“oh,” logan says, and rewinds the last thirty seconds in his mind. “i suppose i did.”

he pauses, before, hesitantly, he asks roman, “did you like it?”

a big, silly grin breaks out on roman’s face.

“i _did_ like it,” he says. “i liked it lots.”

“okay,” logan says, and leans forward to kiss him, once. “good.”

“good,” roman repeats, beaming, and wraps an arm around logan's waist, pulling in to kiss him several times more than _once._

for all the various names that roman comes up with for him, romantic or simply teasing, logan sticks fairly close to the traditional: _dear,_ and _dearest,_ and, when they're alone, _love._

roman seems to smile at him, just a little silly, every time that logan says one of them.

* * *

**first discussion of the future**

roman walks into the sanders’ house to see his boyfriend at the kitchen table, surrounded by pieces of paper. it’s a pretty familiar sight, after years of studying together and doing homework together, but what _is_ different is the chilton blue-and-navy of the little book that logan keeps consulting, the paper before him he’s scowling darkly at, muttering under his breath.

“hey,” roman says, and logan looks up from his work, expression lightening, just a little.

“hi,” he says, and tilts up his head; roman obliges, and leans down to give him a greeting peck, before he sits down at the table, too.

“what’s all this?” roman says. “i thought you’d scheduled out the homework you wanted to do over winter break.”

“i did,” logan says. “i’m looking at all the schedules for extracurriculars this semester. i’m supposed to send in what i want to join by the end of the week.”

roman makes an _ahhh_ noise as he tugs the nearest print-out towards him—the cross-country practice and meet schedule—before glancing at logan.

“cross-country?”

“chilton requires all students to participate in at least one sport,” logan says briskly, “i’ll join track in the fall too, i think, if it doesn’t interfere too much with the newspaper. plus, if i have exercise time scheduled in as an extracurricular, it means more time at home for studying.”

“and me,” roman teases, and logan gives him a Look, fondly frustrated, before he returns his attention to the little book—a student handbook, roman realizes.

“what’s up with that?”

“club titles and descriptions,” logan says, and he scowls at it. “there’s a cap on how many clubs you can join, _apparently._ ”

“well, that makes sense,” roman says. “they give you crazy amounts of homework, so they probably don’t want you to interfere with that too much.”

logan sighs, and pencils something onto the paper he has, reaching over to cross something out on another.

“i know that _consistency_ is more valued by college admissions boards than _quantity,_ but surely a consistent effort toward many would seem more impressive,” logan says, and the multiple sheets of paper and the frustration with the club cap makes more sense now.

“hey, the ivies are gonna _love_ you,” roman says firmly. “i don’t think if you joined—” he looks at two more schedules—“the book club versus the quiz bowl will change that.”

“i’m joining both of those, actually,” logan says.

“ _okay,_ then, cross-country versus whatever other spring sport there is,” roman says. “you get what i mean.”

“yes, i do,” he says, and roman reaches over to take logan’s hand; he puts down the handbook to accept it.

“look,” he says in a low voice. “i know that you’re joining all of these because it improves your chances at college, and i am one thousand percent for you chasing your ivy league dreams, we _all_ are. but, just—just. don’t go crazy with it, okay? so, in your schedule, make sure to put in time to relax with your dad and eat at virgil’s and, of course, spend time with _me_ is important.”

logan cracks a smile.

“ _so,_ ” roman says, “we’re all gonna be proud of you no matter where you go, and yes, while you planning for your future and your ambition are things i love about you, if you put too much pressure on yourself, you’re gonna snap.” he waits a beat, before he says, “so maybe the club cap’s a good thing.”

logan hesitates, before he sighs, and sets down his pencil. it’s the closest to _you’re right_ that roman’s gonna get when logan’s wound up over college like this, and he knows it.

“and, hey, if we’re talking extracurriculars,” roman says, “i think i’m gonna join the cheerleading squad this semester.”

logan turns to look at him head-on then. “ _really?”_

“yeah, _really,”_ roman says, and he shrugs. “y’know, i’m pretty good at picking up choreography, and a fair amount of girls in my class are on the team already, and they’re always complaining about how they want more boys to join to be base so they can actually move some girls to be flyers, and i know _some_ acrobatics but learning backflips and handsprings and stuff could be really useful if i wanted to do stunt work in any dance job i picked up, so…”

logan’s brow furrows. “i thought you were set on ballet?”

“well, i am,” roman says. “but—but if i got the option to be on broadway, like, as a dancer or, fingers crossed, a main role in _pippin_ or _newsies_ or something, i wouldn’t say _no.”_

he pauses, getting his simile in order, before he explains, “it’s like if you got offered a job at a really good paper to cover politics or profiles or something, instead of _just_ doing deep-dive investigative stuff—you wouldn’t say no to that, right?”

logan’s confusion clears, and he squeezes roman’s hand. 

“if you’d like to join the cheerleading squad, i obviously support it,” he says decisively. “you’ll have to let me know when to come and watch you perform.”

“‘course,” roman says easily. “and i’ll come cheer and wave a poster at your debates.”

logan smiles. “people don’t cheer or wave posters at debates.”

“i’ll make it a trend,” he says decisively. 

“you being there would certainly be enough enthusiasm for me,” logan says, and looks at his schedule, before nodding decisively. “i’ll add in backstage crew, but that’s the last one.”

roman smiles and kisses his knuckles. 

“good for you,” roman says. “d’you wanna send in all that stuff now so you can get that _i did it all before deadline_ feeling?”

“i might review it later,” he says, and frowns at it. “i’m not too sold on a couple clubs, i’ll probably research them a bit more.”

“well, you _do_ have all week,” roman points out, but logan’s closing the handbook, which should count as a victory. 

“yes, i know,” he says, then he starts to organize the sheets of paper into somewhat tidier piles; roman stays back, because he knows that if he just starts stacking papers all together it’ll throw off whatever system logan’s got set up.

“which clubs d’you wanna spend more time thinking about?” roman asks instead of messing up logan’s papers.

logan hums, and says, “i want to research if taking the science club will compound the scientific ap classes i’ll take, in pointing to my strengths, in regards to any admissions office, or if that slot would be better-suited by something else.”

roman repeats, brows furrowed, “ivy leagues are gonna _love_ you.”

“well,” logan says. “whether they do or not—all the same, it would be good for me to attempt to better my chances, wouldn’t it?”

“you’re gonna do great, no matter where you end up,” roman says. “and it _will_ be at an ivy. you’ve worked too hard for it to be anywhere else.”

logan takes in a breath, and says, “i wish i had your confidence.”

“hey,” roman says firmly. “in a couple years, i’ll be driving the 22.8 miles to visit you at yale, or 131.7 for harvard, or the 134 for princeton—”

logan blinks at him, and says, in a very soft voice, “you looked it up?”

roman blinks, and says, “yeah, _duh._ ‘course, if i adjust it to new york city, then that means entirely _new_ measurements, but i just went from here—”

“so, new york?” logan interrupts, squeezing his hand. “you want to go to college in new york?”

“well,” roman begins, hesitates, before he shrugs. “i mean. i haven’t been thinking about it since i was three, like you, but—but, yeah. i think so. makes the most sense. there’s a lot of dance jobs in new york, not just broadway and stuff, but ballet companies too, so—so, at the very least, it’d be good for networking.”

“new york,” logan repeats, like he’s testing out how it sounds, before he says, very suddenly, “there are a lot of news jobs in new york, too.”

roman blinks at him. “yeah?”

“yeah,” logan says. “the _times,_ the _post,_ the _herald._ _bloomberg_ and _new yorker_ and _new york magazine._ lots of publications are in the city.”

a smile is starting to spread across roman’s face, because—because he can _see it._ him and logan, in a tiny, terrible apartment, just the two of them. their clothes crowded together in the same closet, their shoes sitting side-by-side at the door. waking up every morning in the same bed, and pressing a kiss to logan’s shoulder as he wakes. hand-me-down furniture and blankets tossed over the couch. logan with his papers spread out across a kitchen table as roman puts down a cup of coffee for him. roman elevating his feet on the couch and logan coming over to lift his legs, only to sit and settle roman’s feet in his lap. little potted plants that roman would insist on buying, but logan would end up caring for. a cat, maybe.

their life together, the pair of them, trying to make it in the world. roman can see it so clearly he can practically _taste_ it.

roman wonders if logan can see it too. 

from the way logan’s looking at him, though, eyes wide and a little nervous, he thinks he just might.

“yeah,” roman says, and smiles wide. 

“okay,” logan agrees, as if it is not even a _little_ illogical to be start plotting his entire future life with his high school boyfriend, when he’s sixteen and roman’s fifteen and neither of them even _know_ exactly what’s in store for them, but—

but it feels so _right._

“new york it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! as always, you can find me on [tumblr!](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com)


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